


Freedom Comes at a Price, My Dear

by RainySpringMorning



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Birdwatching, Freedom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainySpringMorning/pseuds/RainySpringMorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After carrying out an assassination, Haytham has a rather meaningful discussion with the late Baron's wife about freedom.</p><p>Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft, including all related content and characters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom Comes at a Price, My Dear

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very new to the world of Assassin's Creed, but the character of Haytham Kenway has left a profound impression on me,, so much that I couldn't resist to write a small trinket about him. Freedom is likely the most important theme above all others in ACIII, so that is what this little tale is about. I got the idea while birdwatching from my balcony, and I immediately imagined Haytham saying something about how dull an affair it would be. I hope you find enjoyment in my first Assassin's Creed fanfic - thank you very much for reading.

Wiping the blood from his basket-hilted blade in long, smooth strokes and returning it to its engraved sheath on his belt, Haytham righted his hat and strode from the Baron’s chambers, his footfalls muffled on the patterned carpets running down the hallway. With a flourish of cape he turned into another hall, this one’s walls hung with aged paintings and lined with cased pottery and plates from Greco-Roman times. Making his way down the stairs, the tips of his fingers running along the polished oak bannister, he promptly made for the estate’s main foyer but paused in mid step, sighting coifed hair swept up with tiny flowers and the several layers of a powder pink dress moving out of sight out on the balcony built off the side of the foyer. He approached cautiously and peered around the heavy curtain to where the Baroness stood looking out to the northeast. An untended bush grew there against the side of the estate, and in it fluttered several sparrows, all chittering amongst themselves as they hunted for food.

“Is it done?” the Baroness asked in her soft, timid voice, which shook with nervous anticipation. Haytham moved to her side, resting his palms on the balcony edge and, without looking at her, said, “Yes, he is dead.”

The Baroness sighed at once, a sound of relief, and she turned to Haytham, her eyes glowing in appreciation. As suspected, Haytham could see the familiar tainted darkness present there in her expression – a tainting that was often present in a client as they at last registered what exactly they had paid for and that it had been seen through.

And so Haytham asked, for perhaps the first time in his life, “You do not regret your decision?” He did not know why he asked the Baroness this, nor did he understand where it came from; he was not the kind of man who cared for the reason why. He simply did as he was asked, nothing more and nothing less.

“Oh, no. I do not regret it at all,” the Baroness replied hastily, shaking her head. “It has been years since I felt anything for that man, years I tell you. He was not the man I fell in love with. I gave him a son and so many years of devoted adoration that he never deserved. He repaid me with nothing but disloyalty, to his family and unto me.”

Haytham cleared his throat quietly, nodding curtly. He never liked to divulge into the details of his assassinations, but he could agree that a dishonest man could not be trusted; if not with his own wife, then with whom else? The Baroness sighed once more and dabbed beneath her eyes with a folded handkerchief, returning her attentions to the fliting sparrows. Haytham stood in her company in silence; he would have left but an unusual question broached his lips, curiously: “Is birdwatching not a dull activity?”

The Baroness laughed and folded away her handkerchief. “I’ve always loved watching birds, Mr. Kenway. When I was but a babe, my grandmother would place me out beneath the trees to listen to them scuttling around and singing such _beautiful_ songs. It is a thing of peace for an old woman like me.” She glanced over at Haytham with a smirking smile. “A young man like you would not understand a thing of it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Haytham said, amused. “But I am not a young man.”

“You are younger than I, and that’s that,” the Baroness stated firmly. “You should allow yourself to understand why one birdwatches. It is not a simple way to pass the time; there is a sense of freedom, is there not? A bird can do as he wishes at anytime and anyplace. He may spread his wings and fly to another tree should he want to.”

“What are you suggesting, milady?” Haytham asked her. The Baroness looked upon him once more, a distance glazing her eyes as she responded: “To have been born an eagle. They are a symbol of right and freedom.”

“A woman such as you is free, are you not?”

“Oh, no. No, my boy. I am trapped by the position I must uphold, but furthermore, I am trapped by this aging body of mine. You will find that when you are old, you long to shed everything that bars your way and that you might be free of your burdens.”

Quietly, Haytham uttered, “Freedom comes at a price, my dear.”

With a tone of finality, the Baroness bid Haytham farewell and departed from the balcony, the heels of her boots clacking on the tile and gently fading to silence. Haytham remained where she left him, staring sightlessly, somewhere between at rest and between thoughts.

“I am not young but nor am I old,” he said aloud to a sparrow with an inquisitive eye that sat between the prickly branches, a beetle caught between its tiny sharp beak. “But I do understand what it means to be trapped, as that I am at this very moment, with all I have done but cannot do.” The bird made no reply and presented no sign of interest and Haytham sighed, turning to send one quick glance at the horizon deepening to plum and silver in the growing twilight. The last rays of the sun were brilliant in the distance; the whole image looked to be a painting, undisturbed, each cloud brushed so thin into the skyline that there might not have been any clouds at all.

The sky was then disturbed; a small figure, small-bodied and broad-winged, came into sight and released a piercing cry. Haytham’s steps ceased and he observed the eagle come swooping past the side of the estate, wings flapping but a single time that carried it by very suddenly. Haytham glimpsed its eye in its pass, a round gold orb gleaming with indignant determination and willpower, as though it owned the very wind it flew upon.

Somehow, the mere eagle left an impression on him; as he climbed into the saddle and steered his gelding onto the road, that look of determination stuck with him as he travelled through the night to the nearest inn, yet one far enough away from the estate to avoid arousing suspicion. The image of the eagle was stamped firmly upon his mind’s eye, even as his chin began to droop as he was lulled into a doze in saddle.

 _Freedom_ , he thought distantly, the eagle’s piercing cry stirring him awake although the skies were black and empty of any birds at that hour. _How much is one willing to sacrifice for his freedom?_


End file.
